It’s been a little over a week since I started taking Lexapro again. For the most part it has been relatively uneventful. Some mild side-effects here and there, but nothing too serious that I need to stop. There was a brief moment, when I went to visit my mother, where I genuinely had the thought of just ending all of it.

I walk in to see my mother sitting on the side of her bed. Her blue eyes are ruminating over a pair of fuzzy socks (that aren’t hers) with a print of red hearts. She looks up at me and her eyes light up for a second when she realizes it’s me.

“I was just getting ready to go to you house,” she tells me, even though she could not have had any inkling that I was coming.

“Oh yeah?” I reply, with a sappy sweet tone reserved for children and the elderly.

Her expression darkens and she says, “I don’t want to be here. I want to leave.”

That’s when I feel my emotions plunge into a dark, deep, and cool pool of water. I just couldn’t handle life anymore. I wanted this to be done.

Doing the responsible thing I immediately told both my husband and my boyfriend of my feelings. Maybe then there was some accountability and they could keep an eye on me. Although, I will say, I don’t think I could ever do it when someone was home.

After that visit with my mom, I finally understood why most often people drop their family members into a home and never visit. It’s because they don’t want to have to relive the trauma of having to say, “No, you can’t go home.” It happens every visit.

I got a little concerned with my immediate wave of depression at my visit… but when I sat down and unpacked it I knew that it wasn’t a real desire. It was momentary. A passing thought due to the overwhelming nature of my mother. My husband told me to message the doctor immediately about my thoughts (while taking the meds) but I didn’t. I don’t want to be a bother. And most likely, it was just the meds trying to balance out. Everything will be fine.

I have been feeling better today. Hopefully the medication is working and I can find a little bit of peace in all of this.

I finally broke down and made a doctor appointment for my stomach pain. For the past, maybe, 6 months I have had this bizarrely intense pain on the left side of my stomach. It’s not ongoing. It only really hurts whenever I sleep on it for an extended time and roll over to the other side. When I do finally turn, the pain is so intense. But it is just for that single action. Otherwise I haven’t had anything else that would require a doctors appointment.

That is, until a few days ago.

I tried to eat “low carb.” What I repeatedly fail to understand is that this particular diet doesn’t work for me. I’m just not built for (or in the right headspace) to deeply deprive myself of a somewhat necessary component of my diet. Plus I love my sugar too much. I’m basically a humming bird in a human body.

After attempting this diet I got “the sads” and binge ate the entire day. I had McDonald’s for two of the meals and then ate dinner out later that night. Since then my stomach has been uncomfortable. As a result, I finally broke down and made an appointment.

I had hesitated for so long because honestly… I don’t have the time. And part of me has an assumption already in mind of what it could be or even mean. That I really don’t have the time for and not knowing means I don’t have to do anything for it. I hope I’m wrong, obviously, but the way my life has been going the last two years I wouldn’t put it past fate/god/life/my luck to fuck with me again.

Fingers crossed it’s just my flair for the overdramatics. We won’t know until midway through December.

PS I sometimes wonder if people think I’m making this shit up. Like… I’m doing it for attention.

I finally broke down and requested antidepressants. Seeing as how my therapist had informed me, during my session, that I should be careful how I answer his next set of questions because if I answer incorrectly they would have to hospitalize me. While I appreciate the warning, on the other hand I’m wondering what if I really did need to be in the hospital? Now he’s told me to be cautious and dishonest to keep me from the care I need.

In this same session he set me up with a psychiatrist that could prescribe me pills. In the big scheme of things I don’t want to be medicated. In the past they have made me feel indifferent to life. I neither cared or hated it. I just was “meh” about everything. When I finally spoke with the doctor I informed her of the medications I have previously taken that have not worked. We avoided those. What we did settle on was a prescription I had started when I was 18 and was removed from for some unknown reason.

When I was 21 my then psychiatrist just up and decided the meds weren’t working and we started something else. It was then that we began this parade of pills that made my life more miserable than the last. His penultimate diagnosis was bi-polar type 2 (different than his initial “depression” conclusion) but those medications made me so unbelievably uncomfortable. After my third prescription failed to produce any results other than my discomfort I asked him if we could stop. He listened and I appreciated that.

For the past few years I haven’t needed to take anything for depression but now all I can think about is dying. Only recently has it moved into, “…if I were to do it, how would I?” And I know that’s not good.

Today I pick up my prescription for Lexapro. And let’s hope it helps me now like it did when I was 18… Except for those pesky sexual side-effects. The inability to reach climax was… not fun.

I sometimes wonder if the world is trying to break me. With my fathers death, my mothers alzheimers, and my husband’s terminal diagnosis. Then add on the pandemic and trying to care for the two of them.

It seems especially so because my mother fell again. The last time it happened I told her that she would be coming to live with me. I thought that would be threat enough that she would use the walker but she refused. When she fell, I was true to my word. However I think I lost in that. I did come to realize how bad she is. And she is bad. It’s nonstop urine. I don’t know how she can pee so much, but here we are.

As much as my husband would like us to and as much as I don’t want to put her in a home, it is time. I cannot feasibly care for her. My husband takes priority and taking them both to the bathroom, alone, is like a full time job.

I have an appointment to tour a facility on Wednesday. With any luck there isn’t a waiting list.

This morning my husband fell. I feel like such a fucking failure because I could have caught him and I didn’t. My brain was half asleep and I watched, helpless, as he fell into the closet. He hit his head on something (my guess is on the edge of a barbell) and started bleeding.

Panicked I called 911, because a head injury after falling was what killed my dad. Well, my mother inability to dial 911 was what caused him to go brain dead. Primarily, inaction. So, in that knowledge I called for help.

As it turned out he is fine. (For the time being) I didn’t need to call but I’d rather make sure than do nothing.

I’m not ready to lose him.

This is why I think someone or something is trying to break me. It was at this age that my father had a nervous breakdown and ended up in the hospital. He was disabled forever after, most of my life. And I worry that the cycle will repeat itself with me.

Hopefully, I’m made of tougher stuff.